Undressing for Death

The bathroom shrieks
as I take off my skin,
peel casing to carcass.
Tonight I remove it all.
 
Stepping out is easy,
it’s been coming off for days.
What a relief. It does not flatter me,
I need more colour in my cheeks.
 
Where are my manners?
I have not introduced you
to my skin. Look at the light
through it, at the needle pricks
 
from lashes sticking through
the slits of limp eyelids.
You can discover me
in my hands, a lacework of veins
 
you can unravel.
I am woman, I am vellum.
My bones might snap
at the gap between my lungs
 
and where my breasts should be.
I abandon my body to you
so you can feel its motion.

Abegail Morley

published in The New Writer, 101, March/April 2010

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Waterlogged

He builds a bridge and a raft.
The bridge doesn’t reach the other side
 
and the raft keeps taking in water.
She loves him, but that is not enough:
 
he leaves her
treading water until she
 
dives deep, swims
in slow motion, and beneath
 
the surface watches
the ripples on his face.

Abegail Morley

in collection, How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, 2009, Cinnamon Press,
ISBN 978-1-90709-000-4;
published in Other Poetry Series III, No. 3, 2008

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Cry Baby

As soon as nobody is looking
she will sew the tears
 
to the hem of her coat
with thread that doesn’t match
 
so she can watch their wounds
bleed along the stitching.
 
She will sew them in pairs
so they can hold hands.

Abegail Morley

in collection, How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, 2009, Cinnamon Press,
ISBN 978-1-90709-000-4

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Justice

She won’t let a blink disturb her
and stares as he strips her judgement,
holds it up like washing
announces its dirt.
 
His lips, conspirators,
sticking together,
neither giving up the other.
 
Earlier, they sat in the pew,
cold visitors, unholy.

Abegail Morley

in collection, How to Pour Madness into a Teacup, 2009, Cinnamon Press,
ISBN 978-1-90709-000-4;
published in Anon, 6, 2009

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